I've been reading apocalypse fiction these days.  I was tempted to go back and dust off my copies of The Stand (Stephen King's tour de force epic of Captain Trips and that last magician of rational thought, the Walkin' Dude) and Robert McCammon's Swan Song (also considered a viable heavyweight contender and a crackerjack story as well), but I nixed them both on the grounds that I want new scorched earth.  I've been working on two books in the last week and a half, being...

1)  World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War by Max Brooks.  I love zombies the way baseball fans love hot dogs; just can't get enough of them, and the more slathered with weird shit they come, the better.  However, I absolutely hate it when they are played for laughs and thankfully none of that stupid crap is going down in WWZ.  Brooks did a staggering amount of research dealing with all possible effects of an undead pandemic, from economics to nationalism, medical emergencies to military tactic and everything in between.  Combine this with the interview method of storytelling that made Studs Terkel one of the greatest American writers ever and a very underrated ability to make each of his interview subjects sound like different people, and you get a book that feels very, very plausible... which makes it an unqualified home run.  You want to read this book.  You want to read it very, very badly.

2)  Domain by James Herbert.  I've sung the praises of this British horror author before, and it bears repeating that Herbert is straight-up the most disturbing, violent and downright effective dark fiction writer I've ever had the good fortune to cross literary paths with.  Stephen King is a great talent and is a spellbinding storyteller with a gift of making strange situations feel authentic... but when it comes to finding that squirming, slime-covered button deep in your soul and just hammering the living daylights out of it until you scream uncle, you can't beat his English counterpart.  Two of his previous novels deal with the terrifying giant black rat, and Domain is the final work to feature them.  His ability to imagine horrible scenarios in high-definition for your mental theater makes this book the first one I have described as saying, "Well, it starts with World War Three and then things really go downhill in a big hurry."  If you want your horror fiction to dispense with the foreplay an start serving up slabs of stuff that stays with you long after the final pages are done, to abuse you and then shove more nerve-jangling prose down your throat, nobody even comes close to beating James Herbert and brothers and sisters, I do not exaggerate in the slightest when I mean nobody.

That's my reading list these days.  What's on yours?

I haven't been doing a lot of writing lately.  In fact, I've been doing very little.  I think my outline for Living After Midnight needs some surgery, so I think I'm going to junk the middle section and just go off the top of my head.  Since I know where I'm going to end up (theoretically), this means my chances of making an unholy mess of things is much smaller.

Theoretically.

On Friday I'm going down to the local megamart writing store and sitting down for my annual Date From Hell with this year's copy of The Writer's Market.  Since I have already posted at length on the past about how much I hate doing this I won't slog through that particular patch of scorched earth again, except to say that I'm forcing myself to do this before we leave on Friday evening to head down to my dad's for the annual Battle Of The Bay.  This year's edition features the Oakland A's hurler Justin Duscherer (leading the majors in earned run average) versus the San Francisco Giants' ace Tim Lincecum (who is the no. 2 guy in that same category) at that beloved tremendously ugly piece of shit called the Oakland Coliseum.  If I'm doing something this fun, I have to get the submission list scouted first, which is that whole yin/yang thing at work for you.

Oh, one last thing: you want to read Richard Matheson.  You really do.  He was the main inspiration for Stephen King, and one of the best science fiction/horror writers ever to come down the pike.  You may have heard of some of the movies based on his books (Stir of Echoes, What Dreams May Come) or have at least a passing familiarity with his television work (The Twilight Zone, Star Trek), but it's on the printed page where he really shines.  A Stir of Echoes (the novel) was published in 1958, but it reads like it came out last year and is so damn good that... well, it's just good.  Matheson is not only very prolific, he's also compulsively readable.  He sounds incredibly modern, not dated in the slightest bit, and I have to confess I feel like a dummy who is late to a great party in only discovering his stuff last week.

Tomorrow the gym, Friday the local Barnes And Noble, Saturday the Coliseum.  My schedule is set, so it's back to the Ibanez and a glass of wine for me.

Right now I am reading Furies Of Calderon by the amazing batch of awesome known as Jim Butcher.  Yes, the same Jim Butcher who kicks so much ass on The Dresden Files that frankly it should be illegal for other writers to read him because honestly, jealous green doesn't look good on very many of us.  This represents a major departure for me and what I read because it's... well, it's a fantasy series.

I don't like fantasy.  In fact, I like that genre about as much as I like romance.

Now, before you start beering up, donning your SCA outfits and start calling the local authorities to petition for my long-overdue burning at the stake appointment, I need to tell you why it is that I don't like fantasy for the most part.  I know that this is going to inspire a lot of recommended reading lists and how I should give so-and-so a try, but really, I won't.  Save your outrage and pimping, because it's not going to work.  I have noticed that most fantasy stuff tends to fall into one of a few major categories.

1)  People Who Really Loved The Lord Of The Rings And Wanted To Do Their Own Take.  People, I'm only going to say this once... oh, bullshit.  I've been saying it for years, and I'll go ahead and bleat it again; The Lord Of The Rings sucked on dry ice.  People who say otherwise are myopic, enamored of bad writing or are looking at the contribution the series made to the field without judging the books on their own merit.  They are long-winded, badly-written, travelogues about very oh-so-serious people traispsing across across the world and although this is the height of heresy to say so, they make stunningly better movies than books.  Much like Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, over the years this series has been caught in a kind of cultural echo chamber where it's given a sense of importance and stature that, quite frankly, is very much undeserved for such a boring series of novels.  People who thought TLOTR was the greatest thing since sliced bread generally churn out the same sort of dreck.

2)  Incredibly Complex Books That You Need A Goddamn Index To Have A Hope To Understanding.  The term "world-building" is not meant to be taken so literally.  Some fantasy authors get so enamored with the fancies of their imagination that they spend fully one-third of the book talking about the various customs, histories, wars, betrayals and other events of the world they have created.  If a glossary is not just a nice thing to have at the back of the book but also a necessity, you may have just hit the FAIL button with your forehead.  Please bear in mind however that this is not a sin limited to fantasy authors; goodness, no.  James Michener's long-winded polemics about every state in the union and Jean M. Auel's fucking-amongst-the-cavepeople series that started with The Clan Of The Cave Bear also embrace this sin as well.  Fantasy people, however, by the sheer virtue of the fact that they take place in different worlds, seem to be the guiltiest of this sin.

3)  Cutesy Elf Banter.  Ever notice how there are virtually no dummies in these war parties in fantasy books?  Except wearing the armor of the other side, of course.  It is a long-standing fantasy tradition that there must be people within our parties of babyfaces that don't like each other, and if it's an elf, you're almost guaranteed a cornucopia of smarter-than-thou comments all the way through.  I think this is why elves became extinct; nobody could stand the smarmy bastards for any period of time longer than it took to complete the mission.  As soon as it was over, the next person pitched head-first into the cracks of Mount Doom were those uppity pricks.

4)  Finally, Over Time, The Heart Does Not Grow Fonder.  You can sit there and say all you want that book fourteen in the series is just as good as the first, and the simple truth is that it is not.  Among all writers, I think fantasy authors hold the title belt for the most series that have been beaten to death by simple overexposure.  Yes, I get that there are always new tales.  There are always new adventures.  There are always new places to visit, but for God's sake, know when enough is enough!  Once again, the simple fact that the the setting is a place that is completely made up by the author has the unfortunate side effect of giving them a virtually unlimited soapbox (until the publisher's patience finally wears out) to do tale after tale and sometimes, a limited run really is the best way to go.

So how is Furies Of Calderon, which is book one of The Codex Alera?

It's pretty damn good.

So which has been your favorite fantasy series?  Until Butcher gets enough under his belt, my title contender is still The Belgariad by David Eddings.  Conversely, which one sucked the worst?  Inquiring minds want to know.

Some great advice concerning money and the newbie writer by John Scalzi.

I know, I know.  I'm not as entertaining as I used to be.  I don't tell bus stories any more, or nuggets about that deathless harridan the Enemy Of Fun.  Seems like all I do these days is write about writing, and give updates on what I'm writing, and then... well, I talk about my guitar, too.  Not too exciting, eh?

Sorry about that.  I've noticed the comment totals to my posts have gone wayyyyyyyy downhill ever since I got seriously back into a writing frame of mind, as opposed to when I was drifting about during the seemingly endless writing of Underworld and spieling off drinking tales, car chases and other deteritus of my life.  Hey, them's the breaks.  You post about what you're interested about, and for me these days, that involves how words are put together and the process by which you shepherd them into print.  My space, my rules.

I did recently finish White Night by Jim Butcher, so in addition to my own writing, there's a little of someone else's for you.  If you haven't gotten with Harry Dresden yet, you are missing out.

Oh, and ten days and counting until Living After Midnight hits the pavement.  Now that I've finished Mr. Butcher's latest offering, I can finally get back to work on that.

Um... I like cheese?

Right now I'm about halfway through V: The Second Generation (and yes, I'm still in awe over the lameness of that title) and I'm... well, I'm having some issues.

Not that the book isn't holding my interest, mind you.  If it wasn't simply for the fact that I've been waiting for this installment of the story for over twenty years, I'd still be chewing through the pages, because the storyline being laid down is a decent one.  No, the issue that I'm having with the book has to do with canon.

"Canon" is a word that describes the events and characters taking place within a fictional universe as being official and approved.  This means that all the Harry Potter fanfiction you ever wrote is outside the lines of this category, but J.K. Rowling's interview where she dished up the fact that Albus Dumbledore is actually gay fits right in.  It can be safely assumed that the original creator has the final power to determine what is canonical and what is not, and if the original artist comes along twenty-five years after the fact, you can bet that whatever they put down is gold.  Right?

Yeah, well... sort of.  See, the events of VT2G take place twenty years after the original miniseries, and assumes that several major events that took place in that 'verse never happened.  Like, everything that took place after the original miniseries.  That means no Red Dust, no Elizabeth the Star Child and the wonderfully creepy accompanying pregnancy storyline that went along with it, no Ham Tyler and Chris Faber, it means that Harmony is still alive, there was never a huge hospital press conference raid by the Resistance that exposes the evil lizard aliens for who they actually are and so on down the line.

This is a little disconcerting and has caused me more than my share of "Wait, WTF?" moments.  It's sort of like if the creators of the original Doctor Who descended and said "You know, we see you're having fun with this, but we're taking the power back.  Therefore, you may ignore everything that happened after Jon Pertwee became The Doctor, so begin your memory purge by banishing the image of Tom Baker from your mental movie theater, okay?  Now, this is what really happened..."

Like I said, good but disconcerting.  There's a lesson to be learned here, kids.

So I've just finished They Thirst, and truth be told, I'm kind of sorry Robert McCammon is letting his earlier stuff go out of print.  I know, I understand that the horror field is a giant sucking pit of lame these days (however, I have to say that I enjoyed Hostel) and that he doesn't want his name to be associated with Wes Craven and rest of the people who have killed it...

...but damnit, They Thirst was really good.  So was Swan Song, and Blue World and... what I'm trying to say is that while I know that these days it's a ball of crap, somebody has to be in the aisle to show people how to do it correctly.  You know?

Somebody in the NaNo forums was asking what it took to be scary, and I suggested that in addition to the normal writing guidelines (plan your plot ahead of time, don't do lame characters, it's scarier to conceal than to reveal) that the question-asker should read some good examples of the field... and then go and read some bad examples as well.  For me, the personal watershed moment I always cite is the head-shaking and obscenity-laced aftermath of when I finished The Devil's Cat by William W. Johnstone, and for a classic review that pretty well sums up this modern masterpiece of schlock and dreck, go here and you will be enlightened.  There's even a cover scan as well, complete with the not-so-scary hologram image of the devil/kittyface on the front.  Oooh, yoiks!

I know that I've beaten this book to death a few times, and I plan on repeatedly doing the same thing live and in person when I am a published author and find myself on a panel with vg_ford and rachelcaine, but it bears repeating again that in order be good in your chosen field of fiction--whatever genre you choose to be, or whatever mood you are in that week--you need to have roadmaps both good and bad.  There are tons of examples of the bad ones for any genre, but the good ones... well, when somebody who is demonstrably better than their peers decides they will bow out, no matter how good the reasons are (and in this case, I empathize 100%), it's still a heavy blow.

So therefore, should you have any indication whatsoever that your mental compass may point the way toward writing scary stories (not based on the foibles of the Bush administration, that is), go out and pick up Baal, Bethany's Sin, The Night Boat and They Thirst by Robert R. McCammon, because they are now out of print and getting harder to find all the time.

I'm going to take a trip back to the archives and read The Survivor by James Herbert next.  It was made into a movie, which I remember being fairly frightening but then again, I was nine when I saw it.  What a surprise.

No metrics as of late.  I'l try to make up for it tonight.